


Tiny Vessels

by lurrel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Pack, both characters are underage in the state of California
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson doesn't really know what he wants. Maybe it's Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny Vessels

**Author's Note:**

> All the accolades belong to my beta, abuseofreason, because she basically beat this story out of me. Title from the Death Cab for Cutie Song about hickeys.

Jackson works hard for the things he wants.

Stiles Stilinski is not a thing he wants.

This is important later. 

-

It starts with a bruise on Stiles’ neck, right on the curve of his shoulder. It’s dark purple, the type of bruise that will turn a sickly green before fading away. He shows up with it on a Tuesday, skidding into chemistry late and slumping into his seat in front of Jackson with a spectacular lack of control over his limbs.

The hickey doesn’t look like romance to Jackson, but romance with Lydia is soft skin and sharp words. He doesn’t mind the push and pull, but he would never mark her.

Maybe Stilinski's idea of romance is sharp teeth and soft praise. Jackson lets himself think about that for a second, a hand on the back of Stiles' skull, murmuring soft things in his neck before sinking in his teeth. It’s not his usual fantasy but it’s not off-putting.

He stutters when Harris asks him a question but he gets it right, and Stilinski twists around enough to mouth "showoff" at him. Stiles looks exhausted, eyes ringed dark, and Jackson remembers just how fragile Stiles is, that staying up all night in a cave will leave smudges all over his body for at least a week. He thinks about Stiles in that cave two nights ago, holding their torch as they waited, and knows his neck was bare then.

Jackson doesn’t think about Stiles for the rest of the day.

-

Lydia is one of the few things in his life that isn’t work. She’s not easy, of course she’s not easy, and he wouldn’t want her to be. He doesn’t know how to have a relationship like that, one that’s not worried at the seams.

But Lydia, for all her sharp edges, loves him. And she makes him better, more popular. She makes him work harder. And she’s nice when they’re in bed together, tells him he’s gorgeous and smiles at him without malice. She loves him and it took him too long to figure it out, maybe.

He can keep this, he thinks sometimes when she sleeps. He can let himself have one thing.

-

The bruise fades, and Jackson studies its healing process every day in chemistry. He picks up little details about Stiles that he never has before. He notices how the collar of a few of Stilinski’s t-shirts are stretched a little too wide, and he can smell traces of the pack on him when he runs by in practice, earnest and clumsy but with excellent aim.

There are layers to the smell -- he smells like Irish Spring soap, no aftershave, like Scott all over except on the curve of his neck, the insides of his elbows. Those have traces of Erica, Isaac, Boyd. Jackson discovers this by tackling Stiles, pushing the air out of his lungs and watching his cheeks turn pink.

Finnstock tells him good job and Jackson feels proud. His team is winning the scrimmage, even with Scott and Isaac glaring at him from across the field. It’s not his fault they want to play fair.

In the locker room he listens to Scott hiss in sympathy over the bruise at Stiles' elbow, that Jackson put there. He thinks Stilinski's gonna milk it, but he shrugs it off, sounds embarrassed and annoyed about the attention.

The locker room empties pretty fast, Scott running off to meet Allison and everyone else eager to kick off their Friday nights.

Jackson's making the rounds with inventory and thinking about doing some weightlifting when he realizes Isaac and Stiles haven’t left. He can hear their clothes rustling, hear Isaac’s voice whispering low, and Jackson peeks around the lockers.

He sees them, and Isaac has to know, must know Jackson's still there even if Stiles doesn’t have a clue.

Isaac has Stiles up against the lockers and has his nose buried in his neck and his hand wrapped around his bruised elbow, and Stiles has his free arm resting on Isaac’s shoulder.

Jackson isn't sure what he was expecting when Isaac squeezes Stiles’ elbow, but couldn’t have imagined the noise Stiles makes, the way his head falls back into the metal locker and how his eyes close.

It's obscene listening to Stiles suck in air as Isaac murmurs something into Stiles' ear and squeezes again, pressing his fingers into the damaged skin.

The scent of arousal rises, sharp, and Isaac whips his head around, scanning the room. Stiles shakes his head. “Not here,” he whispers, looking around, and Jackson sneaks to the toilets only to walk out loudly enough for Stiles to hear.

“What’re you two doing, lurking here?” Jackson sneers, and Isaac looks at him. It’s a hungry look, and angry, and Isaac is an unknown here, even more than Stilinski with his bruises and his scent.

“Leaving, actually,” Stiles says, giving him a little wave.

Stiles’ hoodie smells like Derek, and Jackson is gripped by the urge to bury his own face into Stiles’ neck as he walks past him in the locker room. He smells like a warm place, someplace safe.

Jackson isn’t really sure how to feel safe.

-

Lydia loves him but it’s different now that Jackson’s a wolf, now that he’s already ripped her to shreds.

She sits at the edge of his bed and lets him touch her shoulders, her hair, lets him kiss her.

He feels like he’s touching glass, that his fingers slide right over her and leave nothing behind.

-

Jackson can control the change, but he struggles with letting it free. It’s not easy, not the way it seems to be to Derek, whose wolf-side is close to the surface. Jackson’s transformation is hard to pull out of his bones; even when he’s furious it’s a cold anger. He doesn’t show weakness well.

But he’s good at routines, and he doesn’t have to like the other betas to practice fighting with them, so he trains.

There’s a push to be the best there, too, but it’s not like lacrosse. None of them are ever going to be better than Derek. It’s surprisingly liberating, knowing he’s never actually going to win.

He doesn’t dislike his pack so much once he figures that out.

“What’s the deal with Stilinski?” he asks, finally. Erica beat him that night, soundly pinning him to the concrete of the floor so hard he felt the skin on his shoulder blades tear open. “I can smell you guys all over him.”

Boyd has his arm around her waist as she gulps Gatorade, but she smiles at him when she pulls the bottle down.

“Got a little crush?” she asks, and he waits for it to get mean, but she just tilts her head to the side. When Jackson doesn’t respond she shrugs. “He’s a really good tutor.”

Boyd squeezes her a little. “We’ve been hanging out some.” Erica beams down at him for that. Jackson wishes everyone in the pack wasn’t so fucking difficult to read, that he’d been around when they started developing their secret signals.

Isaac looks at Jackson, only meeting his eyes for a second. “He leaves his window unlocked at night.”

”That seems like a dumb shit thing to do,” Jackson says. His body is singing with the exertion of a fight -- he thinks he could run all the way home, even if he lost this round.

Boyd looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You’ll find that he knows how to take care of himself.”

“He’s a great host,” Erica says, and it’s still not mean, but there’s an edge of challenge there, like Jackson needs to start respecting Stiles to keep the peace. Her hands flash claws for just an instant.

Derek said the pack has to learn the difference between cruelty and power but Jackson isn’t sure any of them have picked it up yet.

-

Jackson’s used to working harder than this.

The window is unlatched and Stiles is sitting hunched at his desk, chewing at his cuticles and frowning. The computer glow makes him paler than he is, something supernatural and unrested instead of the scrawny guy he actually is. Stiles has never held that much interest for Jackson aside from a good punching bag, at least not until very recently, and the perspective is strange.

Jackson slips inside and Stiles doesn’t look surprised, just blinks up at him.

“Oh, hey. Erica warned me you might show up.”

“Warned?” Jackson asks.

Stiles smiles. “Well, gave me a heads up. She said she wasn’t sure what your intentions were, but I told her I didn’t think you’d beat the shit out of me in my own bedroom. It’s not your style.”

Jackson leans against the wall by the window and feels a little out of his element. He doesn’t want to just trade insults, he wants to understand why his pack is crawling all over this spaz and why that makes him want to, too.

“How’s your elbow?”

Stiles licks his lips. “It’s, uh, fine. I put some ice on it, barely feel it now.”

“So it’s healing faster than that thing on your neck did?”

Stiles slaps a hand to his cheek. “Why Jackson, I’m flattered. Are you keeping tabs on me?”

Jackson puts his hands on the back of Stiles chair, boxing him in and leaning close to his face.

“The whole pack. Appears to be keeping tabs on you.” He leans closer til his nose brushes Stiles’ neck and he inhales, lets his eyes close. It’s almost as good as when Derek ruffles his hair, touches him and he can feel the power thrumming under his skin.

Jackson doesn’t hesitate to press closer. Their mouths fit right and Stiles’ opens almost immediately, his eyes shutting. Kissing Stiles is like a long yawn, a satisfying pull in the center of his chest.

Stiles is patient and responsive, letting Jackson take the lead, but eventually he puts a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and pulls back.

“Hey,” he says and Jackson doesn’t want to talk, he wants to put his mouth on the soft skin behind Stiles’ knees, bite at his shoulder blades, bury his scent among the rest of his pack’s and find his own secret spots.

“Hey,” Stiles says again, and Jackson looks at him. Stiles’ cheeks are pink, his eyes wide. “You okay, Jackson?”

Jackson feels out of breath, and he pulls away, standing up straight. He touches his mouth but doesn’t let his fingers linger. He doesn’t feel quite in control, and that’s scary. Stiles isn’t there to be pushed around, so he needs to leave.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, “I already know not to like, tell anybody.”

“That’s not. I didn’t come here to.”

“It’s not the whole pack, either, if you were. I don’t know,” Stiles laughs nervously, hand on the back of his neck. “It’s just. I’m here? If you need it I guess?”

“I mean, I’m here if you need me,” Stiles says to Jackson’s back as he hurries out of the window.

-

Jackson knocks Derek off his feet the next week, pins him down and stops with his teeth over Derek’s throat.

The warehouse is still when he pulls back, holds out a half-transformed hand to Derek and pulls him up.

“Good work, Jackson,” he says, smirking in a way that isn’t cruel at all, and Jackson feels electrified.

There’s a minute where Derek leans in, scenting him, and it’s weird but it soothes him, calms the jangle of adrenaline and fight that’s still running through Jackson’s transformed body. Derek noses against his neck, hand firm on Jackson’s shoulder, and he relaxes in increments, starting with the scowl on his face going lax.

He can feel all the features of the wolf pulling back inside.

“Thanks,” Jackson says, shaking his head.

“Better?” Derek asks, and Jackson shakes out his arm, rolls his neck.

“Yeah.” It’s weird, letting someone he barely knows this close. Maybe it’s terrifying but Derek is in him now, they’re tied even if Jackson didn’t know what that meant at the beginning.

Erica breaks the spell by clapping, then elbowing Boyd to clap with her.

“I’m actually impressed,” she says, and he glowers at her, which doesn’t make her smile disappear.

Jackson rubs the back of his neck, and Isaac sidles up next to him -- he’s next to try to take down Derek.

“You smell more like pack today,” he says, and it’s a little more accusatory than Jackson expects.

“Needed help with a lab report,” he says, easy, and his heart doesn’t even stutter.

Isaac raises a dubious eyebrow but doesn't push.

-

Jackson follows Stiles home from lacrosse. Stiles made three goals in practice but got tackled at least six times, slamming hard into the ground until he was just a jangle of anxious energy, gasping for air.

“You’re better than that,” Jackson says after he’s pinned Stiles against the wall in his own room.

Stiles’ eyes are wide and his heart is beating hard in his chest and Jackson wants suddenly to sink his teeth into the meat over Stiles’ hipbone, to push him down and mark him.

“Do you give this much personal attention to every underperforming member of the lacrosse team?” Stiles’ body moves in tiny bursts, spasming under his hold. He’s a hummingbird or a shark, depending on the day, never able to sit still.

Jackson didn’t exactly notice getting half-hard against Stiles’ thigh, but he’s not angry about it. He bites at Stiles’ bottom lip, can taste the slight tang of blood where it’s been split, and he feels Stiles shiver under his hands.

“No. Why do you think Greenberg is still such a shit?”

Stiles laughs, nervous and aroused and confused. Jackson doesn’t normally like any emotional smells -- it’s overwhelming when he’s in school, like having a peek into everyone’s inner life. To be honest, he doesn’t really give a shit about most of the people around him, and knowing when they were sad, angry, or horny didn’t really make his day better.

But right now, Stiles is tilting his head to the side and Jackson lets himself nuzzle there, even though he’s probably never nuzzled anything in his life. Being close enough to smell each of Stiles’ fears is intoxicating.

“You smell...”

“Like pack, I know. I’ve been told,” Stiles says, and Jackson can tell when he relaxes. It’s an easier answer than what Jackson was going to say.

“It’s kind of a self-perpetuating thing,” Stiles continues, his voice squeaking when Jackson licks a stripe up the pulsing jugular.

“I don’t want to talk about pack,” Jackson says into his neck and tries resting his teeth on the thin skin there. He can _taste_ when Stiles’ pulse kicks up.

“Don’t,” Stiles stutters out, tense again when Jackson presses lightly with his teeth.

Jackson pulls back to stare at him. “Don’t what? You weren’t this shy about any marks a week ago.”

“What?” Stiles squints at him, confused, and Jackson rolls his eyes and noses against Stiles’ neck again.

He waits a minute, and then bites down softly anyway, not hard enough to leave a mark behind, and Stiles whines, head moving to give Jackson more access to his throat.

Jackson presses their lips together instead, tongue pushing against the seam of Stiles’ mouth until Stiles’ jaw works open. They kiss for a while, Jackson’s hands resting on the bony wings of Stiles’ hips.

“Uh,” Stiles says, hesitant like Jackson is going to bolt at any second. “Could we maybe move to my bed? Or at least away from the wall?

“It’s kind of hell on my shoulder blades. Also I’m still holding my gym bag, which is not really romantic.”

Jackson bites his bottom lip in retaliation. “This,” he growls, “isn’t really romantic.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of getting that.” Stiles still steps forward, putting them chest to chest, and Stiles is warm, the thump of his heart beating right into Jackson. He hears Stiles’ bags hit the floor, and then Stiles’ hand is tangled in his shirt, his mouth on his mouth.

It’s different, when Stiles tries to take control of the kiss. Stiles’ mouth is more insistent, and he licks along Jackson’s teeth. It’s jarringly intimate in a way he wasn’t expecting.

He slides his leg between Stiles’, pressing him back against the wall, because he wants the control back. He gets it, too -- Stiles breaks the kiss to moan as Jackson’s leg presses against his dick, and Jackson takes the time to bite at his bottom lip.

“Bed, _now_ ,” Stiles manages to groan against Jackson’s mouth even as he rides his thigh. Jackson doesn’t mind obliging him just this one time, pushing him onto the bed and crushing them together.

-

There’s a rogue omega in town and they convene to come up with an attack plan. Derek tells Stiles to keep his window locked. The mood goes from nervous excitement to uneasy tension.

“Don’t let anyone in,” Derek snarls when Stiles opens his mouth. “And all of you should stay away.”

“Jeez, okay, okay. Anyway, boss, don’t think I’m always looking to get myself maimed,” Stiles says, and the betas in the pack shift and glance at each other.

After the meeting, Erica and Stiles work out tutoring over Skype, and he and Boyd murmur to each other. Jackson doesn’t bother to listen, and doesn’t talk to Stiles at all on his way out.

-

Jackson starts running more because it makes Danny less upset than when he drinks, and he has to drink practically a whole handle of vodka to even get tipsy. He doesn’t regret the bite, because even at his worst there’s something in him now that’s always powerful, that’s always _better_. But he wishes he'd been given a list of things that would change.

He doesn’t think about where he’s going until he realizes he’s jogging a giant loop around the Stilinski house. On his second pass Stiles texts him, “You’re supposed to stay away, creeper,” and that makes Jackson think about Stiles instead of nothing, which is the opposite of why he started running in the first place.

-

When Derek deems the danger over, Stiles is given permission to unlock his window.

“Gee thanks, dude,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, but everyone seems more relaxed, even Scott who has no problem just walking through the front door.

Jackson waits a week because he doesn’t need this to become a regular thing, not like Isaac who oozes neediness out of every pore.

They don’t talk about it so Jackson doesn’t worry that he can smell Derek against Stiles’ pillows, that sometimes Stiles used to smell like the alpha at school when he wore his scarf inside. Jackson would love to leave an answering mark but he won’t challenge Derek like that. But he’ll still touch. He’ll still push as hard as he can against the bruises Stiles wears like tattoos.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and Jackson realizes he’s been staring as he leans against the window frame.

“Hey,” Jackson says, and Stiles is looking at him curiously now, like maybe he thinks Jackson should talk about this or something.

He doesn’t want to talk about this with Stilinski. He barely wants to even talk to Stilinski at the best of times.

“You got some time?” Jackson hates that he’s not looking Stiles in the eye but he’s tired, disappointed in himself. He needs this and Stiles is going to give it to him.

He hears Stiles shrug. “I’ve got time for a break.”

He always sounds so fucking casual, and that should kill him. Jackson wants to hear him scared again, wants to pull a whimper out of his throat as easy as slamming him against a locker and snarling. He’s seen Stiles take down a creature four times his size with a knife and some fire, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a human with soft hands and a soft belly.

“Good,” Jackson says and he tries for a sneer, something nonchalant, and Stiles says, “Let me wrap this up,” and doesn’t look at him.

Lydia isn’t easy, but Stiles is, Stiles is pliant where everything else in his life is a fucking trainwreck of difficulty.

Stiles is there to take whatever Jackson wants to give him. Jackson’s missed this, and he grabs Stiles’ shoulder, spins him in the chair.

His heart speeds up as Jackson manhandles him, and Jackson licks his lips. “I don’t have time to wait for you,” he says, and he shows a little fang.

“I’m not here for you to push around.” Stiles’ eyes are ringed and dark as he glares up at Jackson.

Jackson doesn’t tell him that’s exactly why he’s come, to push him around, but he squeezes his shoulder harder.

“Sure. But you like it, don’t you?” Now he smiles, and he knows what he looks like, relishes how Stilinski licks his lips and tilts his head, baring his throat. It might not even be intentional.

It probably is.

“Yeah, I do, or it wouldn’t happen,” Stiles says and Jackson almost laughs and then catches how ugly that would be.

This kiss isn’t easy, Stiles standing up and pushing Jackson against the window. It’s a futile show of strength and it gets Jackson’s dick interested, if he’s honest. Stiles pliant is one thing, but Stiles fighting is another.

“Knees,” Jackson says and Stiles is still glaring, but he drops to the floor anyway. It’s not graceful.

He unzips his jeans and Stiles’ hands settle on his thighs, fine-boned and big.

Stiles just looks at him, and pulls off his hoodie, his plaid shirt, and Jackson looks at the lean planes of his chest as he pulls his last undershirt off.

It’s always a little surprising when Stiles emerges from his shapeless day clothes, and Jackson thinks he could be doing better for himself in a lot of things. There’s something appealing in the way his body moves sometimes, something different than the way Lydia stalks.

But Lydia isn’t a wolf and she doesn’t understand, and Stiles isn’t a wolf either and Stiles _isn’t_ a wolf, throat bared and pale skin and Jackson can hear his blood moving if he tries hard enough.

“Open up,” Jackson says, thumbing at Stiles’ lower lip, and his voice is hoarse already. Stiles doesn’t say anything, jaw dropping open as he starts to tongue at the head of his cock.

Jackson rocks his hips, shallow, rubbing his cock against Stiles’ tongue. He doesn’t want to just fuck Stiles’ mouth but he pushes Stiles’ head down anyway, hard enough that Stiles starts to choke around his dick and fuck, that’s something he’s never wanted before and needs now.

Stiles pulls back, licks up Jackson’s shaft instead, and Jackson lets his head fall against the wall with a thunk. Stiles’ hair is soft and short under his hand, and he pets Stiles softly. His other hand is on the smooth skin of his shoulder, and he squeezes there, just a little.

Stiles groans, panting against the crease of Jackson’s thigh, before going back to sucking the crown of his dick, tonguing at the slit.

“Fuck, c’mon,” Jackson groans. His vision is bright and he has to take a minute to breathe and make sure he won’t wolf out, and that’s new. Stiles’ cheeks hollow, though, and Jackson shuts his eyes.

Stiles is fucking good with his mouth, sucking Jackson down and swallowing around his dick, careful with his teeth, and sloppy enough that his chin is damp with spit. Jackson has to watch, eventually, and it’s even better. Stiles’ eyelashes fan out against his flushed cheekbones, and his cheek bulges every so often when Jackson thrusts his hips. It’s filthy and Jackson loves it.

He even lets Jackson hold his head still as he pumps into his mouth, short in-and-out thrusts until he pushes deep and feels Stiles’ throat again. Stiles’ eyes are watering, a little, when he does that, but Stiles makes a noise in his throat that’s amazing.

Jackson wants to come but he wants to mark Stiles more, so he pops his dick out and Stiles looks up at him. He starts to jack himself -- his dick is slick all the way to the root with spit and it’s an easy slide, and his balls are already tight.

Stiles’ eyes are heavy-lidded with lust and it takes him a minute to get what Jackson’s doing, and he croaks out, “Hey, no, don’t,” but it’s too late, Jackson is coming and only manages to get his cock back into Stiles’ mouth after streaking his cheek with come. Stiles waits a minute, breathing hard, before he stands up from the floor, standing eye to eye with Jackson. It’s easy for Jackson to forget how tall his is.

“Sorry, shit, sorry,” Jackson pants out, but he isn’t really. He’s hazy, feeling good and in control and grounded, and Stiles is solid in front of him.

He licks Stiles’ cheek, and the jizz is bitter and he licks again, not sure why.

Stiles jerks back at looks at Jackson suspiciously. He doesn’t look angry, though. It’s not like Jackson could have just jammed his dick back into Stiles’ mouth in the second he shot off. “It’s fine. Just, don’t do it again.”

“You like that, though,” Jackson says, leaning down and pressing his fingers on Stiles’ thigh, hands on rough denim. Stiles is pretty hard, and Jackson thinks for a second about kissing him to taste himself, about sucking his cock in return.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “But. You don’t get to do it.”

Jackson isn’t sure what he’s allowed to do, and he’s definitely not sure what he wants to do, so he settles for saying, “Okay. Uh, thanks.”

Stiles’ eyes are sharp in the lamplight and Jackson can feel them watch him leave.

-

Isaac is vicious on the lacrosse field and vicious off of it, and while Jackson normally thinks of him as prey, he knows how to hunt. He waits for Jackson until the locker room clears, and Jackson is totally surprised when he’s jumped.

“What the fuck did you do?” Isaac hisses at him, spitting in his face, and Jackson isn’t sure he’ll win if they fight. His doubt lasts for a split second and then he shoves Isaac off, slamming him into an unstable wall of lockers that creak and shift with it.

“What, was I encroaching on your territory? Like the whole lot of you isn’t fucking around with Stiles too?”

Isaac’s face is expressive and it goes from furious to absolutely bewildered and back to furious in a number of seconds. “What the fuck?”

“He stinks of you guys; I just wanted to get my piece.”

Isaac’s fury dials back into a disgusted kind of confusion.

“You’re fucking Stiles?”

“Isn’t _everyone_?”

Isaac’s eyes go wide, comically huge. “Why would you--. Are you two fighting?” The way he says makes him sound like he’s figured something out.

Jackson rolls his eyes. “No. But _we’re_ gonna be if you don’t get out of my face.”

Isaac laughs at him, but he leaves, and Jackson doesn’t really know what to think of the whole encounter, so he doesn’t. He goes running instead, and doesn’t stop at the Stilinski house at all.

-

Jackson drops his lunch tray down next to Stiles and is gratified to see him startle. Boyd and Erica both eye him suspiciously, sitting on the other side of the table.

“Am I not allowed to sit with my pack?” he asks, and Erica actually bares her fangs at him, just for a second, eyes gold.

Stiles isn’t looking at him at all, reading through his own notes with a highlighter, and that’s obnoxious too.

He yanks the back of Stiles’ plaid shirt and pulls him out of the cafeteria, ignoring the yelped pleas and general flailing limbs until they get into the nearest restroom.

“Don’t even think about shoving me against the wall in the boys’ bathroom to make out, okay?” Stiles says, stepping away from his and rubbing at his neck. He looks angry, and Jackson hasn’t had that look leveled at him for a long time.

Jackson feels angry, too.

“What’s your deal? Isaac is pissed at me, and no one else looks thrilled to see me.”

“Have you considered the fact that you’re an asshole to be a likely cause for this problem?” Stiles _is_ pissed, arms crossed over his chest. Jackson takes a step closer, crowds him, and Stiles closes his eyes and breathes out, frustrated.

“Jesus, you’re all such fucking babies. I ask for some space and everyone gets all fucked up about it.” He runs a hand through his short hair, nervous. “I canceled a couple study sessions because I need a week off from general werewolf _feelings_ , okay? It’s not like I don’t have to take midterms too, and I’d rather be studying than trying to figure out what the hell is going in your collective tiny brains.”

“And that makes me the bad guy how?”

Stiles rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes for a second, like he’s trying to stave off a migraine. “Because I reeked of you, man. Even if they can’t tell that I blew you exactly, they can tell you were all over me this weekend.”

“What, they’re pissed that I finally got you to myself? Or are facials just reserved for the Alpha?” Jackson is sneering, he knows he is, but he’s pissed. Stiles was supposed to be something that wouldn’t blow up in his face, pun not intended, and here he is arguing in a shitty bathroom.

Stiles makes a fist but doesn’t swing it. His teeth are bared and if he was a werewolf at that moment he’d be Derek, eyes red with fury.

“Are you a fucking idiot? Do you seriously think I’m sleeping with the whole pack? The whole pack _and Derek_?”

“I know you smell like someone who’s been sleeping with the whole pack.”

“I’m _friends_ with them, you complete and utter moron. I know it’s a hard concept for you to grasp since you’ve pushed me around for being a loser, but I have friends! Most of them are just werewolves.”

Jackson stares and has to shake off the urge to suck a bruise into Stilinski’s neck right there. His pulse is pounding.

“Your neck,” he says instead.

“My what?” Stiles says, and then he gets it. “Uh, that was you. Shoulder hit. I slammed into a rock on the field and bruised like hell.”

“Isaac was all over you in the locker rooms and I know you like that.”

“He was using his freaky werewolf powers to make it stop hurting. You know, being considerate, not leaving a guy hanging without even a handjob.” Stiles hisses that last part out, getting quieter the more wound up he gets.

“They touch you _everywhere_ ,” Jackson says, but it’s comes out thin and weak. If the pack isn’t touching Stiles that means it’s just Jackson, and that. Why would Jackson need him.

“Look, I’m not sure where you got the idea that I’m some kind of fucktoy to a pack of incredibly hot werewolves, but you need a reality check. I’m teaching Erica chemistry, not sleeping with her. I’m playing Halo with Boyd.”

“So what the hell were you doing with me?” Jackson’s stepping back now -- his vision is bright like it gets when he’s about to change and he can’t believe he’s losing control now, because of Stiles.

“I thought --” Stiles hisses it out but then stops and shakes his head. His laugh sounds flat, but he laughs, and says, “I thought you wanted me, at least a little. That maybe you liked me. But it’s just been a territorial pissing match for you, hasn’t it?”

Jackson wants to snap his jaws against Stiles’ pulse and bite until Stiles screams, to let the pack know he’s claimed him and they weren’t allowed to touch him, not any more.

“It’s all been a colossal fucking mistake,” Jackson says, and then he walks away.

-

Jackson isn’t so unaware that he isn’t left wondering about what exactly he was thinking, fucking around with Stiles. He’s pretty sure he didn’t _want_ Stiles, though, and that makes the awkward social reshuffle even more distasteful. Jackson doesn’t sit with the pack at lunch, Stiles doesn’t sit with the team. Lydia doesn’t sit with him either, sitting with Allison and Scott. She’s punishing him even if she doesn’t know for what yet, and she stops letting him check his homework against hers.

Danny, at least, seems happy to see him. The rest of his pack is less enthused, shooting him suspicious looks in class. He’s pretty sure at some point Isaac tries to trip him, but it doesn’t work and then when Jackson turns around Isaac’s gone.

He’s not sure what the pack thinks happened and he’s going to try not to care. Getting hot hasn’t really changed their weirdo status at school, and the team would have his back if any weird rumors about him hooking up with Stilinski came up.

Stiles doesn’t seem that self-destructive, though, and generally acts like nothing’s happened at all. He’s not such a drama queen that he moves seats in class, but that just gets under Jackson’s skin. He looks at Stiles’ bare neck in chemistry and frowns down at his own notes, half finished sentences and loops doodled in the margin.

Jackson doesn’t know why Stiles ignoring him makes him angry because a month ago he was hoping Stiles would shut up and disappear from his life forever, miraculous gift of lacrosse skills notwithstanding. He takes it out in practice, slamming Martinez into the ground with a crack, and it makes him feel a little better.

Stiles isn’t there.

-

Erica invites him to the train depot two days after what Jackson is mentally referring to as “The Incident,” because it’s not really a break-up if you weren’t really friends.

“Let’s spar,” Erica says, and there’s a golden tint to her eyes already. Derek looks at her and then says, “Partial transformations only -- I don’t want to have to clean up any more blood.”

Then Derek leaves, which is alarming because the other two betas are also looking at him with gold-rimmed eyes. The room doesn’t smell like exertion anymore -- it’s covered up with the scent of anticipation. Jackson doesn’t like it, but he changes into some shorts anyway.

She grins at him and her teeth are sharp. “I’m glad you showed up.”

They circle each other a little on the mat, and she fakes lunging toward him twice. Jackson feels off his game, but then he doesn’t train nearly as much as they do.

Isaac and Boyd are standing behind her, looking impassive

“So,” she says, and then she takes a swing. Jackson doesn’t dart away in time and her claws catch on his shirt, ripping the cotton. “I was thinking we could have a talk.”

Isaac’s doing that thing with his eyebrow that makes him look both impatient and like he hates you.

“What could we possibly have to talk about?” Jackson smirks right back at her and catches her around the middle, pulling them both to the floor with a loud thud. She snarls and twists in his arms, scratching until he has to let go because his arms are bleeding, and she gets to her feet about when he does.

There’s a tense moment where they both stare at each other, breathing heavy, and then she huffs out an exasperated breath. “Are you seriously that dense?”

Erica swerves forward, slams an elbow into Jackson’s solar plexus and brings her foot around, pulling his leg out from under him. Jackson goes down hard but manages to pull Erica down with him, and they grapple for a minute until she pins him down, straddling him. Her claws are digging into his shoulders and she’s snarling in his face, and it’s more humiliating than a normal bout. Derek would have pulled her off by now but. He’s not there. Jackson’s bleeding.

“What were you thinking?” she asks, voice darker as she gets angrier, shifts more into the wolf. It looks natural now, and he can feels his eyes go wide as her hands twitch and her claws move inside his flesh.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” His own hands are scraping at the mat.

She leans really close. “We don’t know the details, but you obviously fucked with Stiles. He smelled like you all over.”

Jackson knows they can hear his heart slam in his chest.

Boyd is standing closer now, leaning over Jackson. “Did you miss beating him up or something? Did you think this would be a better way to mess with him?” He’s still human, but Isaac’s standing on the other side. His head is tilted and his eyes are bright gold.

“Stiles didn’t rat you out, if that’s what you think, but it’s not hard to connect the dots.” Isaac’s crouched now, close enough to Jackson that he can smell the excitement.

Jackson wrenches Erica’s nails out of him, and can _feel_ his muscles knit together. She lets him, sitting back on his legs. He’s not getting up without having to fight all three betas, and anger is really the only feeling he can focus on without panicking.

“Look, it didn’t mean anything. He got the wrong...it doesn’t even matter, I’ll leave your creepy friends alone from now on.”

Erica’s mouth twists and she slaps him hard across the face. It burns and he just stares at her. “He liked you, you fucking jerk.” She stands up and looms over him, and Isaac waits until Jackson gets to his feet to take her spot on the mat.

“God, it’s not even worth it because you’re so self-absorbed,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, maybe people are constantly showing up in your room to casually make out or whatever it is you were up to with Stiles, because you’re this golden boy, but the rest of us? Not really a thing that happens.”

“I’m not apologizing for that,” Jackson says, and Isaac darts into his space, grabbing his shoulder and knocking him off balance. It only takes one more hit and Jackson tumbles to his knees. Isaac wrenches one of his arms back, leaning on it and pinning him awkwardly.

“Those ‘creepy friends’ are pack, Jackson,” he snarls, lisping through the truly impressive fangs. Isaac’s wolf instincts scare Jackson the most -- the wolf is something that’s always lived inside Isaac and Derek just set it free.

Isaac only knows pain equals power, and he’s got Jackson under him. Jackson doesn’t know how not to be cruel and maybe Isaac’s still learning too, and Jackson can feel the pain from Isaac’s hold getting sharper. He thinks about his bones cracking.

“Do you get it yet?” Isaac’s words are wet and slurred and angry.

“No,” Jackson says, and then there’s blood where Jackson sinks his claws into Isaac’s leg.. Isaac bites at his shoulder and that burns, the sudden shock of teeth sinking past his skin. They don’t bite because Derek says they don’t have the control for it yet, that they could damage something worse than they mean to.

Boyd pulls Isaac up and off, and there’s talking but it takes awhile for Jackson to process it through the white noise of pain, and healing. By then, the three of them are standing shoulder to shoulder, looming over him as he’s sprawled on the mat.

“Being in the pack isn’t an excuse to hurt someone in it,” Isaac says, flat human teeth bared, blood caught in the grooves of his teeth.

Boyd’s the one that offers him a hand. Jackson’s twisted arm doesn’t hurt with the immediacy of a cracked bone, but there’s headache that’s cresting behind his eyes, and there’s a throb where Isaac’s fangs were.

“That’s pretty rich, considering,” Jackson says, but he takes Boyd’s hand anyway and stands up.

Isaac snarls at him, eyes flashing, and Erica puts a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

“You can handle some things Stiles can’t,” Erica says, and she shrugs. No one looks apologetic for pushing too far, fighting how Derek won’t let them. For ganging up on him.

“You might want to think about the signals you’re sending out,” Isaac says, head cocked to the side. “If I had the wrong idea, it’s pretty obvious that someone like Stilinski would be even more confused.”

Boyd looks at him and he isn’t angry like Erica, or infuriatingly inscrutable like Isaac. Boyd just looks disappointed. “If you liked him, that’d be fine. We’re not going to keep anyone in the pack from being with someone they want. But you should know better than to mess with his head like that.”

“All we’re saying,” Erica says, eyes narrowed, “is that you need to figure out what you want.“

Jackson doesn’t know what to say. Isaac’s staring at him, Jackson’s blood on his face, and Erica’s moved on, looking at Boyd. There’s some kind of silent communication he doesn’t understand, and then they head out together, leaving him in the middle of the train depot, alone.

-

Jackson isn’t sure what he wanted but it wasn’t this, the way Stiles jerks away from him when they sit next to each other on Derek’s couch to make a plan for the full moon.

He gets it now, a little. Jackson’s used to getting what he wants, even when that thing was Stiles. And he gave Stiles a taste there, of being wanted. It’s a rush Jackson thrives on, why he has to be the best.

Derek’s talking, but Jackson is looking over where Stiles’ forearm peeks out from his plaid shirt, the way he’s bruised right where fingers would wrap around his wrist.

He’s getting perspective now. Pressing on those bruises is something Jackson wants and it’s just out of his reach. He’ll have to work harder this time.


End file.
